


This Isn't Happening

by Mae_Crowe



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Attempt at humor anyway, Code Blue - Freeform, Established Relationship, Greg finds out, Greg needs therapy, Humor, I find it funny, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Romance, Secret Relationship, greg loses his cool, greg thinks he's crazy, men kissing, those two idiots let him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-16
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:22:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mae_Crowe/pseuds/Mae_Crowe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg never believed the rumors that Sherlock and John were shagging, not really. Sure, it was fun to tease and taunt his friends, but he knew their relationship was solely platonic. He had never seen any action to suggest more than that, so he continued to hold by that belief until proven otherwise. The last thing he expects is to inconveniently interrupt various impromptu make-out sessions between the pair, but is that really what’s happening? Neither Sherlock nor John ever say anything about it, and they seem thoroughly confused when he brings the topic up.</p><p>    Is Greg Lestrade going crazy?</p><p>    Are those two idiots setting him up?<br/>    Or does he just ship Johnlock harder than anyone thought?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First thing's first: this has been posted in its purest form. I write fanfiction for myself out of boredom, so it's really just to appease myself to some end. And there's nothing I like writing about more than having Greg come across something he doesn't want to see. It's not for everyone, but all the same, I find it funny, and I hope you enjoy it! c:

    Greg shuffled a few papers before setting them in a neat stack in the corner of his desk, blinds allowing what little sunlight that penetrated the clouds on that soggy London day to filter into his office. A curtain hung over the window on the door, an admittedly unnecessary precaution even he didn’t quite understand why he made. He sighed, leaning back in his chair to rest just as the plain black cord phone on his desk began to ring.

    _Briiing! Briiing! Brii--!!_

    “What is it, Alice?” he grumbled irritably as he propped his elbows up on his desk, placing his secretary on speakerphone. “I told you before: if they’re here, just send them in. You know the drill.”

    “It’s not them,” Alice quipped, either oblivious to or ignoring the DI’s obvious exhaustion. “Parkington has some paperwork for you in his office. If the email he sent is any indication, it’s quite important.” Lestrade stayed quiet for a long while, scowling. Of course the papers weren’t important. If they were important, Parkington would have hand-delivered them himself instead of sending out an email calling him to his office. Unless the man was tired, which Greg seriously doubted; after all, he himself was the one who had been bustling around all week, catering to Sherlock Holmes as he worked on the recent triple-murder case that had taken all his officers to a state of bewilderment and back again. John had practically fallen on his knees in graciousness when Greg stopped by 221B to offer up the file; there had been a more-than-brief hiatus between the cases Sherlock deemed worthy of his attention, and it was obvious that the sociopath’s flatmate was completely fed-up.

    How John could stand living with Sherlock, Greg would never know. It took all his willpower sometimes not to smack the man upside the head for some of his habits, and he had known him five years longer than John Watson had. Somehow, the good doctor managed to put up with the idiot genius, something Greg always thought he should be rewarded for. Mind, some of his fellow Yarders figured Three Continents Watson was being rewarded for his tolerance, but Greg knew Sherlock well enough that he knew there was no way the younger Holmes was bribing John in that manner.

    “Fine,” Greg muttered in resignation, eyes clenched close. “I’ll head over to pick it up now; send those two right in if they get here before I return. And for God’s sake, please don’t let Sherlock nick that rubber band ball again. Bloody git drives me insane with that thing.”

    Greg could practically hear Alice’s contempt smile. “Sure thing, Inspector. I’ll put it away before Mr. Holmes even gets close to here.”

    “Ta,” he managed halfheartedly before clicking to end the call. Greg leaned back in his cushioned leather chair for a long while, staring at the opposite wall as he struggled  to force himself to rise. His limbs were sore, his head was sore, and he was sleep-deprived; it did not make gathering enough energy to rise easy by any stretch of the imagination.

    _Soon,_ he told himself. _Soon those idiots will be here and gone, and then I can go home and get some rest. Just a little while longer…_

    No sooner did Greg arrive outside Parkington’s door then it became clear that the man himself wasn’t even inside. Greg frowned deeply and tried the doorknob, only to find it locked. “Bloody bastard must have decided not to wait up,” he spat bitterly, mood sinking by the second. Just a little while longer… He resigned himself to turn around and make his way back to his own office.

    By this point in the day, the facility seemed almost empty, as many of the Yarders had taken their lunch breaks. Technically, it wasn’t even a required day of work for Greg himself; he decided to come into the office if only to tie up some loose ends on the recently-solved case. He had paperwork to fill out, and as always, he had to make sure all those who assisted with the case did as well.

    Greg frowned as he approached his office, realizing Alice was nowhere in sight. Odd. She usually never left her post without at least telling him first. All the same, he supposed he wasn’t even around for her to tell; Alice could take care of herself. Why did he care, anyway?

    It wasn’t until Greg began to ease open the door that he became acutely aware of voices coming from within. There were only two people who he had given Alice permission to allow inside regardless of his absence. And indeed, the voices matched those two people perfectly. The words uttered, however, did not.

    “What are you doing?” a smooth voice inquired softly.

    The second voice was slightly rougher, laced with amusement. “As if you don’t already know, Sherlock,” it practically purred. Greg felt his heart skip a beat.

    “We could’ve just stayed home today,” the voice revealed as Sherlock’s pointed out, and Greg was surprised to hear a slight quaver as the usually well-composed man spoke. “Then maybe--”

    “No,” the second voice responded, though the tone was not admonishing. “We have papers to fill out, whether you like it or not.” A slight pause ensued. “But, since Lestrade’s not here yet…” Both voices faded off, and Greg pressed his ear to the door, suddenly alarmed. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say it sounded as though Captain John Watson was flirting with none other than Sherlock Holmes, and that the consulting detective was actually buying into it. But that couldn’t be. Despite what the Yarders liked to believe, despite the taunts and the teases, there was no way John and Sherlock were an item. Flatmates? Yes. Partners? Yes. Best friends? Yes. Lovers? Absolutely not! But even so…

    Before he could stop himself, Greg had shoved the door open and took in the scene stiffly from the doorway. And, boy oh boy, what a scene it was, too!

    Laying with his back sprawled out over the desk was Sherlock Holmes, papers fluttering down to the floor as he displaced them unwittingly. Indeed, his eyes were closed, and he seemed thoroughly preoccupied with the man bending down over him, his back to the door so Greg couldn’t see his face. But the Inspector would recognize that blonde hair and ugly jumper anywhere.

    John was practically laying on top of Sherlock, all ten fingers knotted tightly into the dark curls that seemed to soften the detective’s sharp, angular face. Their lips were working against each other roughly, and Greg winced as Sherlock uttered a moan, clutching at the shorter man’s bum. He was pretty certain John was invading the other man’s mouth by now, and then he registered just what he was watching.

    “Bloody hell, you two!” Greg roared, face reddening as he fled the scene, heart pumping like mad. What in the world had he just witnessed? It looked like John Watson pinning Sherlock down on his desk just to kiss him, but that couldn’t be right. Not gay: wasn’t that his mantra? And since when did Sherlock Holmes accept any form of physical contact, let alone enjoyed them? It didn’t add up, and yet…

    “Oomph!” Greg blinked, pulling himself out of his thoughts as a young blonde in a navy blue pantsuit collapsed at his feet, papers flying everywhere. His eyes widened slightly as he recognized his own secretary before he came to his senses and offered her a hand.

    “I am so sorry, Alice; I didn’t see you there,” he apologized sincerely, helping the woman to her feet before stooping down to retrieve her papers. Alice gave him a weak smile as she dusted herself off, accepting the pile when he offered it to her.

    “That’s quite alright, Inspector,” she assured him quietly, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. “You are not to blame; we were both clearly preoccupied.” She looked at him for a long moment before frowning, cocking her head to the side slightly. “Are you alright, though? You look flustered.”

    Greg shifted his weight from foot to foot uncomfortably, not really knowing what to tell her. Finally, he went with the obvious excuse. “I’m fine, just a little stressed. The sooner I get those two to fill out their paperwork, the better.”

    Alice lit up at those words, a spark in her light blue eyes. “Oh! I almost forgot; Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson arrived shortly after you left to find Parkington. I sent them in like you said; they should be waiting for you inside.”

    “Right,” Greg mumbled quietly, wondering why he didn’t just tell Alice what he had witnessed mere moments before. Perhaps he thought he was crazy. Perhaps he didn’t want to dwell on it. Or perhaps it just wasn’t any of his business what his friends did. Sighing, he retreated to his office, opening the door cautiously.

    Sherlock sat in Greg’s own chair, lounging without a care in the world as he bounced a ball of rubber bands beside him almost lazily. His icy green eyes fixed on Greg, and the DI felt his face flush as the consulting detective smirked. “Took you long enough,” he said coolly. “I don’t like coming for these things, Geoffrey.”

    “I’ve told you before, Sherlock,” another voice chimed in. Greg glanced over to see John sitting in a chair in the corner, rolling his eyes. “His name is Greg.”

    Sherlock frowned deeply, clutching his newfound toy in his hand. “Are you sure?”

    “Positive.”

    Greg frowned, looking from one man to the other. Neither of them seemed frazzled, as he would have expected, and his papers were on his desk, exactly as he had left them. Had he just imagined the scene, then? Perhaps it was just a hallucination induced by his weariness. Deciding not to dwell on it too long, lest he drive himself to some extent of mental scarring, Greg just moved into the room, not even bothering to ask Sherlock to put the ball down and get out of his chair. That would only incite spite from the idiot genius -- he knew from experience. Instead, he stayed silent as he handed each of his friends a pen and a portfolio, sitting down in one of the guest chairs next to John as the room silenced, all except for the sound of Sherlock bouncing the ball of rubber bands on his cluttered desk.

    This silence held true for a long while, save the occasional huff of irritation from Sherlock’s direction as he filled out the papers Greg very well knew he despised with all his heart. Heart. Greg’s mind flew involuntarily to the scene he was sure he had seen, and yet there was no evidence remaining. All the same, he couldn’t just disregard it.

    “John?” he started tentatively, not quite knowing how to approach the subject.

    The army doctor didn’t even look up. “Yes?”

    Greg paused for a moment before an idea came to him. “My cousin’s in town; she’s a huge fan. I was wondering if you’d object to meeting her?” He raised an eyebrow with a slight smile, waiting.

    A frown crossed John’s face. “I usually make it a point to stay away from fangirls,” he said evenly, still not looking up. “They usually do nothing more than terrify me.” Sherlock snorted from behind the desk, now playing with a rubber band he had managed to pull off the ball.

    “Understandable,” Greg agreed with a nod.

    “Besides, there’s been too much going on for me to have time for a girlfriend right now; maybe when work dies down a bit I can reconsider.” He slipped the cap back on his pen and offered it and the folder to Greg. “Done. I’d better take Sherlock home before he breaks something again.” They both looked off behind the desk, where Sherlock had abandoned his papers and was proceeding to aim the rubber band with his fingers. John stood quickly.

    “Come on, Sherlock!”

    And maybe it was just him, but Greg could have sworn that Sherlock looked far too happy to be told what to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: Greg *almost* walks in on something that would fall under the Mature rating. But, hush now; it's only implied.

    A few days later, Greg found himself standing outside flat 221B, a thick portfolio clenched in his hand. He hated having to resort to Sherlock again so soon, as John was probably just getting him caught up on food and sleep, but this case was a doozy; it seemed there were no leads at all, at least as far as any normal man or woman was concerned. As was such, Greg was forced to go to someone who wasn’t quite normal, someone who prized himself for being exceptional. He sighed and made his way inside.

    Under traditional circumstances, Greg would just call or text Sherlock, but Baker Street wasn’t too far out of his way back home from the crime scene. Maybe after feeding Sherlock the details, John would be up to go for a drink at the pub down the road; yes, a pint or two sounded good just about then. Greg grinned to himself as he mounted the stairs steadily.

    The alarm from what he had witnessed in his own office had long since worn off; it was obviously just a figment of his imagination, induced by a need for sleep and by spending way too much time around the maniacs. Yes, he assured himself. That was certainly all it was. John would never kiss Sherlock. Sherlock would never kiss anybody. He had just been a bit loopy, that was all.

    “Breaking rank, I see, Holmes,” a gruff, commanding voice demanded from inside the flat. Greg wrinkled his nose, hand on the doorknob.

    Uncharacteristically, Sherlock’s voice was barely a squeak of response. “Ah… Yes, Sir.”

    A rough cackle resounded off the walls as Greg pondered what was going on. The next phrase made even less sense. “If I didn’t know better, Holmes, I’d say you like prison.”

    “N-No, Sir, Captain Watson,” Sherlock stuttered like a child. Greg noted the use of John’s title and attempted to discern its meaning in these odd circumstances. “That’s not what I like.”

    A short period of silence lapsed. “Then what do you like?” the voice was still demanding, but a softer tone this time. Greg had to strain to hear it.

    Sherlock’s response was, if possible, even quieter. “With all due respect, Captain, you know what I like.”

    “Yes…” John muttered, and Greg was starting to wonder if they were drunk and if he should come back later. The longest silence yet ensued, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave, even though he feared where the “conversation” was going. Then, all of a sudden, the silence was broken, and Greg almost fell down the stairs.

    “On your knees, Holmes!” John barked sharply, and Greg noted that he had never before heard the man’s voice like that. He could hear Sherlock whimpering loudly from behind the door, but he said nothing. Not realizing what he was doing, Greg pushed open the door and peered inside the cluttered flat, heart almost stopping.

    Sherlock was wearing his casual attire -- a pair of lounge pants, a gray short-sleeved shirt, and his dressing robe -- but John was dressed in a way Greg had never expected to see him before. The doctor was topless, dog tags hanging around his neck on durable silver chains. He wore a pair of dark green khakis and spit-shined black lace-up boots.

    Well, at least he had been.

    By the time Greg had opened the door and stepped inside partially, Sherlock was on his knees in front of John, whose trousers had been pulled down to his ankles. Neither of them seemed to notice his presence, and Sherlock proceeded to tug downward at the waistband of John’s boxers. Greg’s eyes widened as he stood rooted in place before finally gaining the capacity to scream. He fled down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, into his car, and--

    “Hello Greg, dear. Are you here to see the boys?”

    Greg blinked rapidly at the woman smiling in at him through his open window, groceries cradled in her arms. It took him far longer than it should have to identify her as Mrs. Hudson, who he knew that he knew, but the information seemed to have fled his mind just as he had fled the flat of disturbing imagery.

    “I… Um…” he fidgeted uncomfortably, not wanting to tell the landlady what he had almost saw and yet unable to think of an excuse for not coming in yet being there in his police cruiser.

    Mrs. Hudson laughed warmly. “Come on in, darling; they won’t mind having a visitor.”

    Greg swallowed nervously, climbing out of the cruiser without saying a word, allowing Mrs. Hudson to lead him upstairs, all while hoping, praying--

    “Evening, Greg. Good to see you.” John stood grinning at the door, now wearing a black and white striped jumper and a pair of jeans. Sherlock was lying on the couch, looking completely and utterly dead to the world in his loungewear as though he had been in his Mind Palace for hours prior. But then…

    “I… Um…” Greg cleared his throat, pushing the disturbing thoughts and images out of his head. He held the portfolio out toward John stiffly. “I brought a case. For Sherlock. Seemed like something he would enjoy.”

    As though somehow had said the magic word -- which, Greg realized, he had -- Sherlock shot up out of his dazed state, fixing his gaze on the interactions at the door. “Another one? Already?” There was excitement in his voice that reminded Greg of a small child. He couldn’t resist allowing a slight smile to curl his lips despite all as Sherlock bounded over and practically tore the folder from John’s hands. The madman flipped through the pages excitedly.

    “Yeah, I thought you’d be pleased. Didn’t expect to have one for you so soon, but this popped up and we’ve gotten virtually nowhere with it. Will you take it?”

    Sherlock seemed to consider as he read over the papers. Finally, he nodded in rapt. “It seems about an eight,” he informed the DI casually, not looking up from the papers. “I’ll get right on it.”

    “Wonderful.” Greg glanced to John, wondering if he should still ask even after…

    “I’m not subjecting myself to Mind-Palace-Sherlock for any longer than I have to,” John said suddenly. “Want to go out for a pint, Greg? I’ll buy.”

    Relieved that the decision had been made for him, Greg nodded quickly, and he and John made their way downstairs. He froze unexpectedly on the bottom step, turning to frown at John. “About you and Sherlock…” he started testily. “The Yard seems to be under the impression that--”

    “We’re shagging?” John wrinkled his nose noticeably. “Please don’t tell me you’ve bought into all that, Greg; we get enough from Anderson and Donovan.”

“No, no, not at all,” Greg responded quickly, turning to move on. “Not at all…” **  
**


	3. Chapter 3

“So there you have it,” Greg concluded, leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching keenly as Sherlock circled the body laying splayed out on the floor, muttering to himself incessantly as Greg and John both looked on silently. “Any ideas?”

“A few,” Sherlock responded, kneeling down next to the victim. “I’ll have to run some tests before I’m certain, however.” He proceeded to inspect the wound on the woman’s head, clearly paying close attention to detail. Greg stayed silent for a long while before deciding to press the issue.

“Care to share your theories?”

Sherlock looked up with a scowl. “I’ll tell you when I’m ready to tell you, Graham; no sooner, no later.”

“It’s Greg, Sherlock,” John chimed automatically.

Sherlock waved his hand carelessly. “Of course it is.”

Suddenly irritated, Greg stepped forward sharply. “You know, Sherlock,” he started angrily. “If it wasn’t for me, you’d probably still be on drugs, without any cases to solve. You’d be alone and on the streets. You owe me a lot more than you’re willing to admit, and yet you can’t even remember my name. I mean, seriously, Sherlock! Why can’t you--”

“If you’re going to continue this rant, Lestrade, I must ask you to leave,” Sherlock interrupted cooly, not bothering to look up. Greg felt his eyes twitch at the words.

“This is my crime scene, Sherlock! You’re my guest here, not the other way around!”

“Actually, you willingly handed the case over to me, so on that note,” he looked up slyly, motioning toward the door with his hand. “Scoot, scoot.”

Greg stood fuming for a long while before he stormed out the door with a huff, all the while assuring himself that he was leaving only because Sherlock had pissed him off, not because the man had ordered him to leave. He jogged out the door and paced behind the yellow police tape, forcing himself to calm down. 

Sherlock might be an asset, but he was also a pain. Not for the first time, Greg found himself wondering how the mild-mannered John Watson could ever begin to deal with the egotistic overgrown child. But then, maybe it was his mild-manner that helped him tame Sherlock, at least to the greatest extent that anyone could hope. Greg stopped pacing and let out a thin stream of air out between his teeth. If John could tolerate Sherlock, so could he. He just needed to keep his cool. Yes… That’s it. Cool, Greg. Calm and cool.

Turning to reenter the building, Greg forced himself to maintain a steady pace and a calm face. Sherlock wouldn’t say anything to him if he kept his cool and did nothing to set off the ticking timebomb. A strained smile covered his face as he pushed the door to the room of the crime open, a smile that faltered as soon as he stepped inside.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” Greg howled, scowling at the sight of Sherlock holding John up against the wall, leaning down to indulge in an irritatingly passionate kiss. Neither of them looked up at him, clearly preoccupied with one another, Sherlock holding John’s neck steady with one hand and curling his other arm around John’s waist. John’s hands were once again in Sherlock’s curls, and they were making little noises, noises that he didn’t want to hear. Greg calmly walked out of the room and shut the door, stepping back outside once more, face unreadable as he took a deep breath of fresh air.

That was it. He was going to see a therapist. He could not bring himself to believe that Sherlock and John had actually been kissing; it went against everything he believed about his friends. Not that he’d mind if a spark ever lighted between them, but he doubted very much that such an ignition would ever take place. Sherlock was asexual, and John was heterosexual. End of story.

“Gertie!” a voice bellowed from behind him. It took Greg a moment to register the source of the voice and to thus conclude that it was probably him who was being spoken to, despite the name. Sure enough, he turned to find Sherlock marching toward him, as professional and unruffled as ever, John struggling to keep up behind him, looking irritated.

“Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous, Sherlock,” the shorter man sighed in obvious exasperation. “You know his name isn’t Gertie. That’s a girl’s name.”

Sherlock looked smug as he cast Watson a sideways glance. “It got his attention, didn’t it?”

Greg sighed, tapping his fingers on the roof of the cruiser, wishing for all the world Sherlock would’ve stayed inside a little while longer. The last thing he wanted to do was to fuel any more -- for lack of a better term -- fantasies. All the same, it might be important. “What do you have for me, Sherlock?”

“Nothing yet,” the detective answered, winking with that irritating forced smile of his. “But rest assured we’ll have your man for you by the end of the week.” He gave a slight nod of his head and began walking away, leaving Greg and John both staring after him. “Good day, Inspector.”

It took Greg a few moments to come to his senses. “Wait,” he sputtered, watching the man incredulously. “You _are_ going to tell me, right? You’re not going to take matters into your own hands and leave me and your brother to cover everything up again, are you?” Greg was all too used to assisting Mycroft with covering up Sherlock’s little shenanigans when he crossed that ever-fading line between legal and unlawful; it had been a task he had been upholding since Sherlock’s drug days, when Mycroft wanted to keep his own name untainted. Greg liked to think that now it was to keep Sherlock safe, with no ulterior motive present, but who could know with the Holmes brothers?

Sherlock laughed lightly. “Oh, Gloria; you know exactly how this works.” 

Without looking back, the arrogant bastard strutted off down the street.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg stood at the printer, sorting through various printed references. He hadn’t heard from Sherlock since five days ago at the crime scene, although John sent him a few texts here and there to at least give him something that the consulting detective wouldn’t murder his partner for revealing about a case he considered rightfully his. It wasn’t much, but at least he knew Sherlock hadn’t gotten them both killed, which was always a threat, even -- or perhaps, especially -- when they weren’t on a case.

Pushing his friends out of his mind, Greg moved back into his chair, still sifting through the pages, making sure everything was there. Yes… Yes… He froze suddenly, a different document catching his eye. Slipping it out of the pile steadily, he read the contents.

_ Code blue. Homeless haunt, Topkettle Road, 483. Bring the bomb squad. -MH _

“Code blue,” Greg hissed under his breath. In retrospect, he had been waiting for it all week; Sherlock was bound to apprehend someone at some point, so naturally Greg had awaited confirmation from the British Government. Their list of codes was extensive; code red had been utilized every other day for a while, signaling the sociopath’s danger days. Codes blue and black, however, had come to be more common in recent years, black meaning injury was obtained and the fool or his friend had already been booked into the hospital, whoever risked his neck for the other.

Without a second’s hesitation, Greg pulled out his phone, shooting a few texts to the necessary assets in preparation for whatever the idiot genius had gotten himself into this time. He didn’t say a word as he threw on his coat, and yet there was a considerable sized parade of vehicles pulling out by the time he got outside, Sergeant Sally Donovan already sitting in the passenger seat of his own cruiser.

“Why do you even come?” Greg asked as they pulled out onto the road, raising an eyebrow in Sally’s general direction. “You and Anderson… Neither of you like Sherlock much, so why do you even come along?”

Sally continued staring out her window, giving a small shrug. “The freak has nothing to do with it,” she quipped, voice kept carefully even. “Technically, this is my job. It’s what I signed up for, it’s what I get paid for, so I might as well get something done, eh?”

Greg just nodded, knowing he wouldn’t get much more out of the sergeant. He suspected Donovan was actually more fascinated than what she let on, even if she resented the consulting detective for his blunt, tactless personality. But he also knew she wouldn’t admit it, so he let the matter drop.

“Here we are,” Greg muttered a while later, pulling up to the curb on Topkettle Road. The bomb squad was already getting ready to head inside, surely awaiting nothing more than the order to go inside, a rather trivial order considering the circumstances. He shot out of the door hurrying over to the building. His gaze flitted around the numerous officers.

“Block off the street, don’t let anyone through!” he bellowed, gaze locked tightly on the dilapidated structure standing at the address before him. “Secure the explosives, apprehend the perp, and for God’s sake get those two out safely or Mycroft will have my--!”

_ BOOM! _

Instinctively, every officer present hit the deck as debris flew out over them, the building collapsing noisily. Greg felt granules of every size and composition pepper his back, but luckily none were big enough or forceful enough to cause any lasting damage. Still, he remained down as a precaution, heart hammering in his chest, only rising when the captain of the bomb squad gave the okay to rise.

Pushing himself to his feet cautiously, Greg felt his breath catch in his throat. Dust swirled up and down the empty street, though the majority of the visible location remained untouched by the explosion. He heard a few discussing how the explosive was pretty much thrown-together, none to powerful yet destructive all the same. It could still kill.

Greg stepped into the cloud of dirt, straining his eyes, looking for any sign of life. Inhaling the dust particles cuased him to cough, but he pressed onward. No. Sherlock and John had to be okay. After all they had been through, this couldn’t take them down. A measly villain couldn’t have brought about the death of two of London’s most acclaimed personas.

A small shifting sounded from within a pile of rubble, and Greg blinked rapidly to clear his vision. A man in a gray, dust covered jumper struggled out from under the debris, arms clamped around a taller, lankier form with gray specks covering his unruly mop of dark hair. Greg left out a sigh of relief at the sight, not even reacting as the two men, on their knees in the midst of the destruction, wrapped their arms around each other and leaned into a slow, sweet kiss. It was, as he had decided, just a fantasy, after all.

Greg caught another movement out of the corner of his eye, hearing a woman cry out. He hurried over to find a redheaded, petite woman trapped beneath the rubble, one leg bent at an awkward angle. She protested as he tried to move her, crying out as he finally lifted her into his arms. “I wasn’t supposed to survive,” she practically whimpered. Greg just lay her on a waiting stretcher, allowing an ambulance to haul the woman who he now knew was Sherlock’s suspect to the hospital for treatment. He rubbed his hands together, dust flying as a cry of surprise from Sally caught his attention.

“Oh, my!”

Wondering what had caused her shock, Greg turned steadily to see a group of officers standing stock-still and gaping, some red in the face, some disgusted, some contempt. “What’s all this commotion?” he hollered, pushing his way through the crowd. But the only thing he saw in the settling dust was John and Sherlock, still wrapped up in and preoccupied with one another. He laughed humorlessly.

“Oh, seriously, this?” he laughed. “It’s just… It’s just…” he froze suddenly as something clicked in the back of his mind. His mouth fell open as he looked to Donovan. “Wait… You can see them too?”

“Anyone with two eyes can see them; they’re not exactly being discreet about it, now are they?” Sally practically shouted, eyes never once wavering. Sherlock -- curse him -- took that very moment to look up at Lestrade with a crooked grin.

“Oi, don’t look so surprised, Gill! You’ve seen worse!” The consulting detective was cackling like mad, John laughing in a manner that Greg decided was to hide his own embarrassment at the words of his counterpart.

“Wait, you’ve known?” Sally blanched.

Greg just stood there in shock for a moment before walking away without a word.

“Greg?” Sally called.

He kept moving.

“We still have to wrap this up, you know!”

He continued still.

“Inspector!?”

** “Let me be, Sally!” he hollered, climbing into his car. “I have a therapy session to cancel.”   
**


End file.
